


how i long (how i long to grow old)

by jcp_sob_rjl_lmep



Series: Batman Bingo 2020 [14]
Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, Happy Ending, Resurrection, major grief, technically a character is dead but the story is about him coming back to life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:34:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28470960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jcp_sob_rjl_lmep/pseuds/jcp_sob_rjl_lmep
Summary: Three days after he dies, Timothy Jackson Wayne walks through the front door.
Relationships: Martha Wayne/Thomas Wayne, Tim Drake & his family
Series: Batman Bingo 2020 [14]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1907791
Comments: 10
Kudos: 96





	how i long (how i long to grow old)

Three days after he dies, Timothy Jackson Wayne walks through the front door. The sun is just coming up, but Alfred is the only person in the kitchen. Alone, his face is etched deep with grief, a man far too used to burying those he loves. Tim reaches out, but stops at the last moment, turning instead and walking soundlessly up the stairs.

He peeks in through doors as he passes them, down one side of the hall. Dick and Cass curled in his bed, the elder soothing his sister as they cry; Jason and Duke, red-rimmed eyes, Jason's arm wrapped around his brother, voice trembling as he reads a book aloud.

Tim's own room, his covers a mess as usual.

His baby brother tucked inside, calling him names.

His baby brother begging him to not be gone.

Then back up the other side of the hall; Duke, Damian, Cass, all neatly in the row leading to Bruce.

Bruce.

Tim's father lays on his side in bed, on top of the covers, one large hand curled around a picture of his third son. It's a good one, Tim admits, despite how rare it had been for him to take pictures of himself. He's smiling.

Bruce's fingers flex around the picture, almost rhythmic. His breath hitches, but he doesn't move. Carefully, Tim slips around to the side of the bed, right where his dad will see him.

"Dad," He says quietly, waiting for his dad to look.

"Tim," Bruce says, blue eyes dull with pain. How many children can one man lose before he can't come back? "Tim. My baby… my boy is dead. Tim…"

The last utterance of his name is a quiet sobbing keen, and Bruce gives himself over to the tears, pulling the picture close to his chest and holding it as if it's Tim himself.

Tim feels a small wash of disappointment as he stands and leaves Bruce to his grief. Apparently even Batman can't see ghosts.

* * *

When his siblings begin to get up, Tim takes his time following them and talking. It’s easy, now, knowing that they can’t hear him be emotional; but at the same time, he wishes they could look at him.

“It didn’t even hurt,” He tells Jason when the older boy gathers Damian and takes the dogs on a walk.

“It all happened so quickly,” He explains to Dick, pushing mushed cereal around a bowl without taking a bite.

“I didn’t even see the knife, can you believe it?” He asks Duke, sitting in the library and dully watching the fire burn.

“Just like falling asleep,” He tells Alfred and Cass, his sister following their grandfather around as he does his best to stay on top of his duties.

But when he goes back and lays down in bed beside Bruce, he has to close his eyes.

He could do it to everyone else, but it's always been easier for him to lie to his dad when he’s not looking at him.

“I didn’t even wish you were there,” He whispers, and _aches_.

* * *

He stays there until nightfall, through Dick attempting to get Bruce to shower, through Alfred coming in to scold Bruce. Tim’s never seen Alfred yell like that before.

He’s never seen Alfred cry, either.

Bruce finally does rouse himself at Alfred’s tears, and he stands on unsteady feet to embrace his father, already too dehydrated to cry with him. When Alfred has composed himself, he leaves, and Bruce trudges to the bathroom, where he proceeds to drink water directly from the faucet before turning and promptly laying back on top of the covers.

“There’s a cup right there, you disaster,” Tim sighs, following him back and plopping down again on Bruce’s bed. He’s only been dead for a few days, but he doesn’t flinch when Martha and Thomas Wayne appear, his grandmother sitting on the bed and making to card a hand through Bruce’s hair while his grandfather is a steady presence at her shoulder. “I’ve told you already, I’m not going.”

“Come now, son-” Thomas starts.

“Don’t call me that! My parents, good or bad, are Jack Drake, Janet Drake, and Bruce Wayne. I’m not your son.” Tim snarls. Their eyes are cold as they stare him down. “Go away. Your tricks can’t fool me. You think I’m not well aware that you’re still trying to manipulate me in a form you think I’ll find familiar?”

Angrily, he pushes himself from the bed, stalking out of his father’s room and down to a sitting room that the family doesn’t often frequent; when he reaches it, they’re already sitting there.

“You’ve seen the way he’s grieving me. I’m not leaving, and if you were really his parents, you wouldn’t keep pushing me like this!”

“Stubborn boy,” A female voice sighs from the shadows behind him. The Waynes are frozen unnaturally; before his eyes, they yellow to a sepia as if they are an old photograph, then begin to flake away, clothes and skin and bones drifting off on a breeze that isn’t there. But that voice.

Tim knows that voice.

When he turns around, Janet Drake stands there, the smile on her face the same as in every family portrait he has - the only relics that have both him and her in them.

“Mom?” He asks. His mouth is dry.

Three days Timothy Jackson Wayne has been dead. Three days since Red Robin was stabbed. Three days since he bled out.

Three days he has been walking the halls of his family’s manor, watching his family mourn him.

He has never seen his mother in that time.

He hasn’t realized until this moment how he has gotten unused to being alone, to being untouched, how much it aches aches _aches_ to wish for a hug.

“Hello, darling,” She says, and it’s so easy to ignore the shadows writhing on the wall behind her, the way her fingers just slightly stretch and elongate as she holds a hand out to him.

Tim _wants_. He can’t imagine turning down a hug from Dick ever again, from any of his family ever again. The way that Alfred presses him close, firm and sure; how Jason hugs in a way that is tentative but desperate, unsure of his welcome but hungry for touch in the same way Tim himself is. Cass likes to tackle, to surprise, grappling on soft surfaces that ends in naps curled close together. Damian has only hugged him once, darting in and wrapping small arms around Tim’s stomach; the soft tendrils of his hair had brushed Tim’s cheek as he held his little brother. Even Duke, new as he is, leans in from the side, whether they’re sharing a couch or walking down the street together, constantly reaching a hand out as if he always wants to check that his family is still there. And Bruce. Bruce’s hugs are encompassing, comforting, giving warmth that Tim can always feel right down to his bones, knowing that his father’s arms will never let him come to harm, not so long as they’re wrapped around him.

“Come here, sun,” She beckons, and that’s something he’s never told anyone, not even Jack, not even Bruce. When he was little, his mom used to call him her sun, so that when she was on digs, she would think of him as the sun beat down.

He’d never been brave enough to ask her if she actually thought of him, and she stopped calling him that around the time he started being old enough to remember. The smile on her face grows (too wide, too much, eyes flashing black-) and he almost, almost reaches out to touch her hand. “Come here, Tim.”

But _that_. That was wrong. In all of the years he had had a mom, she had never once called him Tim. Not even Timmy. He was _sun_ when he was small, and _Timothy_ when he passed four. More often, really, she didn’t even use his name. Janet Drake had gone to her death before calling her son “Tim”. The burgeoning hope in his chest shatters into shards of glass as he shoves himself away from her lengthening arm, desperate to keep her touch away. Now, too late, he sees the things he ignored, how she really doesn’t look like his mom at all. His fingers brush through the vase he tries to pick up, while his back presses against the chair behind him. At any other time, Tim would be very interested in the ghost physics that he is now subject to. But she’s coming closer, closer, fingers about to brush his arm-

“Get the _hell_ away from him.” The distraction causes her to turn away, and Tim takes the opportunity, ducking under her arm and rolling towards the door. He comes to a stop in front of the man who spoke and looks up as a hand clasps his shoulder.

Thomas Wayne’s hand is cold and yet so much like his son’s that Tim could weep. But this is really his grandfather, and the woman stalking past them is really his grandmother, and Thomas’ eyes harden as he pulls Tim closer, glaring at the thing that tried to be Tim’s mother.

“This is my family’s home and my grandson. You have had your three days. _Leave_.”

With a snarl on its face, the thing twists into shadow, a stiff breeze pushing Tim’s hair out of his face, but as it fades, he feels a band around his chest loosen, as though he can breathe again for the first time in three days. For the first time since he’d died.

“If I could only give that bitch a piece of my mind-” Martha snarls, turning, and when Tim sees her eyes, it’s almost like a suckerpunch. For all that Bruce’s eyes are the blue of his father’s, the shape and the emotions that run through them are his mother’s, and the grief rushes over Tim once more at those green eyes turning on him.

“Are you hurt, my boy?” Thomas asks, and just like that he’s calm again, laughter lines in the early stages around his eyes, looking Tim up and down in an inspection that is very familiar.

“I’m fine, thank you,” Tim says, almost absently. If he closes his eyes, pretends that the large hands on his arms are warm, it’s almost like Bruce is holding him. He would usually step away from an outsider’s touch, but this is Bruce’s dad, this is family, for all that Tim has never met him, and Tim has been so, so alone.

“Could practically drive a ghost to drink,” Martha says, with a deep sigh. Thomas, for lack of a better word, softens when he looks at his wife, the very picture of a man in love.

“Tim, meet your grandmother,” He smiles, and when Martha finally turns her attention to him, the anger drains out of her as well, leaving behind a soft smile and arms open in welcome.

“Hello, my darling,” She says, pulling Tim close, and maybe he doesn’t know her, but it’s the most physical contact he’s had in three days - it’s a _hug_ , and he can’t help but to sink into it.

“Hi, Grandma,” And the words feel strange in his mouth, a word that he’s never called anyone before, never having known Jack or Janet’s parents, and of course never having met Bruce’s. But it’s nice, in its own way, and he likes the way she hugs, too, how she pulls him in firmly and rocks them back and forth slightly. When she lets him go, he pulls back to see that Thomas has settled in a chair by the fireplace, lit with a ghostly blue fire. When he sees Tim’s attention on the flames, he winks. The words burst from Tim’s mouth without consulting his brain along the way. “Will you show me how to do that?”

Thomas laughs. “Maybe later, kiddo.”

Martha tugs him to sit with her on the loveseat facing Thomas. “We’re sure you have a lot of questions.”

“What was that thing?” Tim asks. A shiver wracks his body at the memory, and Martha reaches out to take his hand. Hers is cold, but it’s something to touch, so he welcomes it.

“It’s probably easiest for you to consider it a demon,” Thomas begins to explain. “We have our own words and terms, but you haven’t been dead long, kiddo. There are things you just plain won’t get yet.”

“We don’t know why it latches on to the ones it does,” Martha takes over, her eyes firing up once more, though the grip on his hand remains gentle. “And the absolute audacity it had to latch on to _you_ -”

“Martie,” Thomas says, and Martha subsides, her thumb sweeping across the back of his hand. “You made it through, my boy, and we’re very proud of you for that. It tries to convince those it latches onto to leave where they are and follow it to its home, we suppose. There’s not much known about it, because if someone gives in and follows, they are never seen again.

“When it takes ahold of someone, they have to last for three days, as you did. No one else is allowed to interact with them, just watch and pray, really. But now that you’ve beat it, you’re home free.”

“Is this really all it is?” Tim asks. “We just...sit here? Watch them all grieve?”

“It’s easiest to stay in places where you were comfortable when you were alive,” Thomas replies. “You can leave, but that’s easiest when you’re following someone who held you close to their heart. For us, that’s Alfred, mostly. Not that Bruce didn’t love us, because we know he still does, even now. But an eight-year-old doesn’t remember much, not as much as an adult does. So we do mostly stay around here, watching over all of you.”

“Seeing these halls full again, ringing with laughter and the sounds of you and your siblings chasing each other, it’s the best afterlife we can think of.” Martha smiles, patting Tim’s cheek with her free hand.

“What happens when there’s no one left to remember you?” Tim continues.

“That’s not something you’ll have to worry about for a long while, my dear,” Martha shakes her head. “But when you do reach that point, you simply move on. Step into the light and all that jazz.”

“Besides, I’m thinking you still have some time in you, yet,” Thomas smiles, a peculiar glint in his eye. “Haven’t you noticed? You’re more solid than we are - can’t see through you nearly as much as you can see through us. And you’re _warm_ , kiddo. Not living temperatures, but warmer than we are.”

“What…” Tim feels like he’s struggling through molasses, like the conclusion is in his grasp but he’s suddenly unsure of how to read it.

“I’d give you another couple hours before you follow after your brother,” Martha nods, brushing Tim’s hair out of his face.

“You mean that I’m going to… but I died. I know I died, I felt that knife, I bled out!” Tim’s sure his hand is probably tighter than comfortable on his grandmother’s, but the contact feels like the only thing keeping him tethered at this point.

“We can’t explain it,” Thomas says, moving from his chair to kneel in front of Tim. He’s almost comically large, the same as Jason and Bruce, dwarfing Tim and Martha even without standing. One of his hands comes to rest over theirs. “There’s something special about you, kiddo. Something special about Jason. Universe just doesn’t want to give you up yet.”

“That’s not a free pass, Timothy Jackson,” Martha says immediately, the smile on her face taking any possible sting out of the use of his full name. “Don’t you go out and get yourself killed again. You’ve seen what the loss of you does to them. You live a good long life, understood?”

“Understood,” Tim says with an admittedly weak smile.

“Now then.” Martha nods. The smile takes on a bit of a wicked twist. “We’ve got stories to tell you and messages to see if you can pass on, and just tonight to do it. Let’s get to it, darling boy.”

* * *

Four days after he dies, Timothy Jackson Wayne comes home.

His father’s arms are just as warm as he remembers them.

**Author's Note:**

> Happy New Year all! This fills the 'Resurrection' square on my bingo card, and brings me to 50 works on AO3! As I said before, I will be finishing the card, hopefully within January but we'll have to see how fast I write.  
> Downloads are fine but please don't post this anywhere else without my permission.  
> Feel free to come catch me on [tumblr](https://iwillstaywiththemforever.tumblr.com).  
> Love you all and I will see you later!


End file.
